


Magnolia

by aquandrian



Category: Christian Bale - Fandom, Nine Inch Nails (Band)
Genre: BDSM, Lingerie, M/M, Real Person Slash - Freeform, real person fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-30
Updated: 2006-01-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/aquandrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gay pr0n, yeah? With sarcasm, swearing, subtext and smoking.</p><p>Disclaimer: Never happened. </p><p>Originally posted at http://aquandrian.livejournal.com/365781.html</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magnolia

A club opening, somewhere in Hollywood. It’s the mid Nineties. Bale’s thinking he shouldn't be here at all and never should have let the publicist talk him into this. They took the sodding pix out on the red carpet, he's met the producers of the next movie. Oughta just duck out the sidedoor and skulk antisocially back to the hotel room.

He misses his mother. It's ridiculous and infantile, jesus shouldn’t he be over this already? His room stinks of perfume he had bought her. Only because he was incredibly smart and threw it into his suitcase, then was even smarter and threw a big fucking book for his father on top of it. A sickening crack and crunch of glass and now his suitcase and entire posh hotel room stinks of foofy perfume. Good show, Bale. Big claps. 

Throat choked up, his fingers tighten on the beer. And he hates American beer. Hates even more that he’s a fucking cliché for craving a good long pint of Guinness. Uck. Just for that, he knocks back a hefty swig of the fucking awful American beer and dear god there’s two men climbing over each other. And no, no, not in a macho-slap-on-the-back-I’m-so-straight way. 

There’s tongues involved.

He blinks, looks back down at the beer. Damn damn damn, he’s blushing. Stupid fucking skin. The publicist glances over and he ducks his head, hoping like hell she hasn’t noticed. No doubt she'd make some hideous comment involving English roses and he'll want to snap something about Welsh thorns. Biting sarcasm, oh yeah, biting, the glint of teeth, those are gloves, black sleek leather gloved long hands clenching in material and then sliding, sliding over thighs in black denim. 

He's suddenly painfully aroused and right, possibly not so straight. Bloody hell. Darts a look around for someone to talk to, someone to provide a nice sane distraction. The club's crowded and dim, spaces filled with white nicotine fog and dirty artificial mist, people everywhere and not a single damned soul he knows. No matter, no matter. Scramble off the stool and try to politely elbow a way through to the john. Can? Loo, damnit, he's used to loo.

With people doing coke in one cubicle and other people going off their nut in the other cubicle and the fucking atrocious music blaring overhead, it's a little difficult to take matters in hand. He regards his stupid sexually confused cock for a few gloomy seconds and unbidden the memory of black leather gloved hand --- male hand male hand --- obscenely greedy male hand slithers into his head. 

And there it is.

The light in the cubicle is diffused red, shimmers over his face with heat when he tips his head back and closes his eyes, red seeping through his lids. His hand's too familiar, doesn't feel like what that other must, oh christ, the thought of butter soft leather slipping on cockskin, gripping hard, too hard, holy fuck. Bolt of painlust arcs his spine, someone groans on the other side of the wall and he groans silently along, sound that rolls along his throat and he feels something like the brush of dark hair along his face. Hallucinating now? Oh yeah, hallucinating light building brightening about to blaze through him.

He comes in a sharp lonely spasm, splinters of light, into his hand. Sick stupid fuck, remember the girls, yeah the girls you're supposed to be snogging at the fence, strings of spit and all. He chokes on a laugh, wipes himself off and zips up. Glimmer of light blood all over his skin, the blush seeped out of him to colour his world. And as he leaves the cubicle, he does feel naked and exposed, too aware of the recent raw body reality of his spurting sex-rich smelling flesh.

They're still thumping and snorting and psychoing around him, shreds of wet toilet paper on the shattered granite floor, chaos of condoms and plastic things strewn around the posh chrome bins. A smalll steady waterfall cascades from a black shelf and apparently that's the sink and tap thing, all gleaming and silver under which to wash his hands. Right, then. It’ll be fine. Go out there, finish your hideous beer, smile a little at some producers, and go back to miss your mummy in your hotel room. Ponce.

The diatribe of insults is good, keeps him somewhat steady if not quite straight and really he's not looking anywhere near any corner. Wow, breasts, see? Breasts come out of the smoke and fog, rising out of a tight black top, and he pays them and the face attached a grateful smile. 

He finds another beer, this time imported, and finds another group of publicists/producers/people he knows. It's not his fault that he manages to notice the corner now seems rather post-coital. Nod and smile at vaguely familiar faces, don't show the teeth. The beer starts to sweat quick in his hand, a slippery hand that needs --- no, no, don't think about hands!

Bale focuses hard on the man who makes some passing remark. People brushing by, conversations clattering against the bad jungle music. And his attention slides inevitably there. Because the gloved hand now dangles carelessly off another male shoulder and a face is laughing up with a wild bright sweetness. Dark curve of soft hair framing cheek, jesuschrist why couldn't he be a woman? Not that there's anything wrong with that, just don't need to discover latent homosexuality at this point in --- ever! And certainly not because of a few minutes gawking. Such a fucking cliché.

The eyes find him. Midsmile, he gets caught in a careless sweep of the room and though he freezes, that smile doesn't shift. A moment or two of unblinking attention. During which Bale suddenly remembers he has a goddamned suit on, probably looks like he just stepped out of Oxford or some equally preppy nauseating icon of Brittania. He has to fight the urge to loosen his tie and check the stupid long shaggy hair that so fucking needs a cut. Feels utterly utterly naff. But then the attention slips away as a joke is made and, with something like loss, Bale watches a laugh ripple up. Gloved hand slipping off the shoulder, shadow and strobe over hints of flesh against textures of black that he can’t quite make out.

"Chris?"

"Christian." It's an automatic correction and thank god for it because he had actually been staring. Christ. Really, really smart, Bale. Really. Twat. The publicist apologises, she's babbling something he can barely hear through the music, god knows how he heard his name anyway, and he has to lipread to understand and follow her out of the main bar. This is good, a quieter part of the club, the chill-out lounge, how suave. And a chance to chat with some actually interesting producers.

Bale switches into less-than-antisocial mode which, for him at least, passes for schmoozing. They've grown to expect the quiet well-mannered English young man. The questions about Spielberg are now being matched with careful probing about Winona which makes it no less annoying but hey, he could be amused.

And the further away from that corner, the better. Right? 

He tries not to answer that. Drinks enough to fuzz the edges of perception, a haze that makes him focus harder on the woman talking to him with lips that look like some sort of flower. Coloured fog rolls over him and it's not a metaphor. All he can see is her mouth, pink and opening, curled and unfurling somehow. He feels desperately untouched, needs suddenly and violently in that way that always seemed so fucking Aquarian. Cool sodding bastard who goes ages without human contact and then needs like a mad priest in the desert. Succour.

And that's when he glances up, across, responding without knowing to the barely sensed butterfly touch of attention. A certain sort of attention. The fog dissipates on strobes of red, breaking around the little knots of beautiful people. Those eyes, careful, dark, curious. Bale stares, skin prickling because this time he knows he's being stared at right back. And damnit, damnit, he's going to blush again. Fire of humiliation and rage snaps behind his eyes and his fingers tighten on the bottleneck. 

A young slender man, not particularly tall, something slightly awkward about his body turned towards the group of obvious musicians flinging themselves down on a couch, laughing and talking. He stands, face framed by an untidy swerve of inky hair, eyes a different kind of dark light, skin a glimmer of ice, and he wears a strange motley of black. Motley, motley, did he actually use the word motley? Fucking wanker. Mesh and satin and yeah, the slick touch of leather against pale sleek taut arm. Bale looks there and looks away before he can blush for the fifteenth bloody time in half an hour. 

Luckily, the woman with the flower mouth had been distracted by an adjacent conversation. His skin tightening all over, clothes feeling absurdly loose and hot, he moves towards the bar. Trying to escape? Hate this agony of desire, of wanting to make a move but at the same time longing to be free of this, to be cool and untouched and aloof again, to just not want.

Should it always be this hard? Difficult. Difficult, rather.

He broods at the bar, in a sufficiently darkened corner where the music murmurs low and uncomfortably sultry. The jacket's too hot now but he refuses to take it off, sweltering instead in self-hatred. This cowardice, this sullen resentment of the excitement that bubbles through his blood. He bends his head, the rim of bottle mouth cold and hard against his temple. Stupid shaggy hair slides over his shoulder, curves against his jaw and right, object of fangirl lust, isn't it? Broody Bale with his beastly beer.

He knows who it is the same moment as he realises someone comes to stand beside him. Because the first thing he sees are those fucking --- no, not strong enough, motherfuckingly, assfuckingly ... assfucking ... oh god ... --- hot gloves. His head's a little too light as he straightens his back. 

No, it's going to happen. Whatever's going to happen is now going to happen. He feels it, recognises the moment of a world spinning gently into another dimension stream. It all slows down now.

Hi. There should be words, right? Hi. I'm Christian Bale and up until about forty minutes ago I was really straight, I dated Winona Ryder, you know, she's not that great a snog but I don't tell people that cos truth be told, I'm actually more attracted to her personal assistant and I should probably get up right now, go back to my hotel room and call her and my god you have the most amazing mouth.

Instead the guy looks directly ahead, at the bartender and for a second, Bale entertains the horrifying possibility that he might have got it all hideously wrong. He does feel relief for the same second. Back to the beer, nice safe beer, beer at which to look at while distractingly attractive men take their distractingly attractive armwear away. Maybe it was the horrible beer.

"Hey."

Fuck. Yes.

He knows he should clear his throat, knows also that would be a dead giveaway so he doesn't. Instead croaks "Hey." 

And they stand like that for a while. Well, Bale sits and he stands. He. He with a capital Huh. He's drinking beer too but something American which should be repulsive, right, but only adds to the compelling bizarreness of him, of this whole ... thing. 

I've never been so attracted to someone in my life, Bale wants to blurt out. A conversation starter and killer if ever there was one. There's enough space between them to be perfectly blank and heterosexual. And the silence is thick and heavy enough to become a thing of curiosity, just how long can it drag out, perverse masochism. Bale broods over his beer, possibly even being enough of an actor to hope he looks really fucking pretty doing it.

"I'm Trent."

"Christian."

A measuring look that goes on and on. Bale suddenly feels the need to apologise for his really poncey name, suddenly feels every inch of the teen girl's heartthrob, oh jesus. His eyes glint an unidentifiable colour as the light hits them, a kind of grey. He doesn't smile but there's something easy, amused about his face. Relaxed. 

He's done this before, Bale knows suddenly, well of course he has, you twat, you saw the tongue action. But, no, this isn't as freaky for him as it is for Christian I-was-schooled-on-a-Spielberg-film-set Bale. What’s this, homophobia? Oh, very enlightened. Not as if he’d never thought about this, oh so fucking adventurous Aquarian apparently. It had always been a hypothetical. And now very sharply not. 

"Bale." There's barely an apology in that.

"Reznor."

A pause during which each obviously waits for or dreads recognition from the other. And then equally a slow blink. No recognition. Right. A confidence straightens his spine, becomes giddy as it reaches his head and swirls around his brain, turns him towards ... Reznor. A name of blades, feels sharp and lethal in his mind and tastes of blood in his throat. And those eyes have changed, lidded, lowered. Bale realises he's just licked his lips and that a man is looking at those lips. His cock hurts.

Reznor looks at his mouth, then looks at his eyes and away. A wholly different moment of relief. Bale watches him take a sip of the beer, curious if that's an exhibition of nerves. Not an exceptionally pretty man, his eyes are set a little too close, his nose is a little too big and the rest is a fairly unremarkable face. But the mouth ...

"So," Bale acts the best casual he's ever done, "what do you do?"

He gets a look of disbelief that vanishes into abrupt perfect blankness. "Investment banking. You?"

Don't laugh. Don't grin. He matches tone for tone. "Mergers and acquisitions."

"Married?"

"Insanely happy. You?"

"Twins on the way."

"Felicitations."

They're grinning like idiots at each other. It's really embarrassing because it feels far too much like infatuation and Bale takes refuge in his atrocious drink because, well, with five seconds of conversation he's having far too much fun and really doesn't want to go back to his hotel room.

Alone.

Once that thought's in, it takes up a huge bright breathless space in his head and he can actually feel every other thought process scrambling to figure out how to get Reznor, Trent and that mouth back to his hotel room.

~~~~~~~~~

How it happens is this. Bale's on his feet, fingers curled into the side of his thigh, knowing his eyes are bright with alcohol. He says and doesn't mean to sound quite so American, "Wanna get outta here?" 

An eyebrow goes up. It's terribly erotic and he feels terribly English for thinking it. But those eyes flick down to his mouth, he feels his throat go dry. And still looking at his mouth, Reznor says with a certain oddness to his tone, "Sure."

His voice is kind of intriguing, much quieter and more controlled than the bizarre sexy clothes imply. It's slightly confusing, everything about this guy is a bit of a mindfuck and this is what Bale thinks as he follows him through the crowd. Or maybe that’s the attraction, is that the attraction, why this, if it ever had to be, happens now? Couldn’t be a nice simple buttoned down boy now, could it? Maybe a Mormon, all blond and earnest eyed. Right. Of course. Because clearly that’s what the English rose is supposed to want. Dear god he's wearing fishnets.

The lights of the club entrance spill out on the sidewalk and catch the gleam of pale taut flesh through black net. Arm and thigh, slim muscle flexing as he hails someone down the street. Bale stares openly, a litany of the sacred and profane melting through his mind. Jesus Christ, who wears that?

Reznor, Trent, apparently. Who turns and catches him staring. And without thinking, without caring, Bale steps in, hand to cheek, and, eyes open, touches his mouth to that face. Simply because, because he couldn't just look and not be closer, be within breathing space, be in his space. Maybe in the unthinking instinctual moment, he had meant to find that mouth but his lips find skin and a corner, tastes like the shock of someone else entirely, and those eyes darken, a breath caught tense in the fraction of space between their faces. Fingers wrap around his wrist, leather sleek, not hard but not gentle either, simply there and male and so long. Smells like skin and sweat and heat and lime and leather. And now that he's here, he's doing it, Bale wants to push further, wants to dip his head and just simply take.

But then, then the second surprise happens. The fingers dig in, the short odd bloke’s eyes turn dangerous and Bale has this sudden awful fear of entrapment and gay-bashing which would be utterly brilliantly absurd because he's been gay for what, about an hour and a half now? And Reznor grins, a little feral and bright, teeth against reddened mouth curve for a moment.

He wants to be fucked.

As he gets into the long luscious limo, Bale's not sure which he was meant. The car door slams. Reznor's legs are spread, shitkicker boots braced against the floor, he's leaning to the side for something. All Bale sees is fishnet and flesh that connect to the most unfeminine and unbelievably hot suspender contraption thing he's ever seen, over shorts that cling and conceal sleek thigh contours but christ, it's those glints of metal buckles that has him choking on the desire to manipulate and dominate.

"You're staring." It's said dryly. 

"Sorry," Bale apologises like the magnificent five year old he is. Far cry from the suave guy bantering at the bar. But he gets a slow gleeful smile in return that goes through him like giddy perfume. 

It's only a few moments later that he realises the car's moving. "Er. Where're we going?"

Reznor has uncovered some sort of minibar, now tosses him a glance over one shoulder. Gleaming satin sleeveless sort of top zippering up the front, so touchable. Bale focuses on what's being said. 

"Do you care?"

God. So he's being seduced sight, sound and psyche. Grins just as crazily back, delirious and flying with it. "Actually, yeah. My hotel." 

Something like displeasure creases Reznor's brow. "I'm sure your place is all kinds of interesting," Bale says, "but I'd rather not." And he’s not exactly sure if he can articulate why, just the instant gut reaction to the image of hotel room group orgies and him the little white lamb led to some kind of sexual slaughter. All right, that’s articulate.

"No?" The slightest threat or warning of contempt. Careful treading here. "No," Bale repeats with just enough deliberate charm. And gambles on a hunch. "Don't want to be a cliché, do you?"

There's a moment of pure danger. Pitch black in the car, then strobe white. Then Reznor laughs, quick and sharp, and as Bale starts to respond, he moves, flash fast. Attacks. It's a hard hand on his face, hard gloved leather hand, hot hungry mouth on his mouth, flesh and fishnets and fabric crowding his shocked self. His cock has no problems dealing with or identifying this, it springs harder, his spine arches with it and oh god tongue in his mouth, sounds made into him, long fingers tight and dominating on his jaw. He tastes, he tastes, oh fuck He tastes like nothing ever before, like what a heroin trip must feel like, pure unstrung bliss. 

Bale pushes up, grabs for anything he can, one hand scrabbling for purchase on the leather seat, the other slipping, clutching on so much satin and net and the occasional sinful hot slick of skin. Reznor arches his own back in this incredible sinuous curve of movement, head going back, and Bale looks up the contour of throat, dark hair falling across brow and cheek, and falls deeply horribly in love. Although that could be because his cock is being brutally and beautifully ridden.

Fists his hand in the satin top, pulls hard so Reznor falls forward, forced to look down, eyes glazed greygreen. "Here," Bale mutters as he leans up. Eyes closed in strobe lit darkness, tasting, tongueing and biting, he's picturing the shape of the mouth he kisses. Thin, curling out to the corners, but ripening towards the centre, sullen girlish and so fucking pretty. If there was lipstick, it's long been rubbed off, kissed off? Jealousy spears through him, sharp rusted violent, and he bites suddenly and without warning, without pause for consideration.

A muffled exclamation, Reznor reels back. There's blood in Bale's mouth and he takes a slow reflective moment to taste it, lick his lips, memorise that flavour. He's very carefully not thinking about what this makes him.

But clearly someone is. There's a speculative look in those eyes as he watches. And whether he realises it or not, Reznor strokes his hand along the side of Bale's face, smooth unnaturally organic palm shaping to the contours of cheekbone and jaw. 

"How old are you?"

He blinks. What sort of stupid --- "Do you care?"

Again, that hinted at smile somewhere in the subtle curves of his face shaded by passing neon. "Old enough," Bale admits. Reznor nods slightly. "Cool," his voice almost absent as he fingers the corners of a mouth that really wants to keep biting. "And where's your hotel?"

~~~~~~~

"You smell," Reznor says thoughtfully, "good ..."

Bale chokes on a curse. Fucking bottle hadn't broken anywhere near his clothes, he had done the good thing and hung them all up but nooo, still he manages to --- omigod, is that why? 

And Reznor must have seen the startled horror in his face because he chuckles. "Yeah, you know I'm really straight, right?"

"Oh yeah. So am I."

"Right."

"Right."

In the same contemplative silence, Reznor is back near the minibar, legs spread, hand dangling elegant and gleaming black just near his crotch all deliciously outlined and strapped. 

"You're staring again."

"You're too bloody far away." This is said without any consultation with intellect or self-preservation. Ahaha. But what makes up entirely for the humiliation is the way Reznor shifts with abrupt discomfort on the seat, hand curling a little. Bale's halfway across the space by the time he's told "No! Fucking stay over there and I'll stay over here and that's how it’ll be."

Teeth grinding, he slams back into the seat, unashamed to glare. "Sodding tyrant, aren't you?"

A grin curls around the bitten mouth. "Stay."

Oh, fuck you. But he stays and if his hand strays a little closer to his crotch, if his legs apart stance mirrors Reznor's exactly, that's totally unintentional, right? Bale tilts back his head against the seat, eyes drifting closed, to feel the beat of the road, the beat of his blood pound up and down through him. He tugs lazily at the knot of his tie, skims a fingertip across the satin weave as he loosens it. Unbuttons his collar with one hand. "So talk," he says with his eyes shut, managing to sound nicely nonchalant.

There's no sound for a little while, just the narrow breathing of a watching man. Bale loses the battle to control his smile. His mouth curves up, he runs the side of his thumb all the way down the length of tie and over the ridge of his fly. 

Sudden intake of breath and then "No."

His smile deepens, the one thumb becomes the inner hard curve of his palm. Up and down and drag back halfway up to squeeze. 

"Jesus." It's barely a whisper. Quick slither of fabric makes Bale glad his eyes are still shut because he's fairly certain the sight of gloved hand squeezing a strapped crotch would undo him right there in the oh yeah Armani trousers.

"Talk," he says, undoing his belt with one hand. Light plays across his lids, red green blue, bright white through blood. He runs the edge of his thumb along the metal of the zipper, idly wonders if he'll taste metal in his mouth again tonight.

"Our father who art in heaven --- "

Bale chokes on a laugh, eyes starting open. Reznor grins back, his eyes utterly seriously hot. Whatever. Go with it. Our father who art in heaven, recites Bale in his head, skin creeping with heat.

" --- hallowed be thy name --- "

Slides down the zipper, abdomen tensing, pushes his boxers in an agony of sensation out of the way. " --- thy kingdom come --- " breaks into a series of obscenities, enormously satisfying and thrilling at the same time. There’s cool air on his slightly tender cock and he stretches out one leg, bracing his foot on the floor, feels the ripple of tension all the way up the muscles in his thigh, on earth as it is in heaven.

Bale spits on his palm, rings his hand around the head of his cock and drops his wrist down, a little slower for audience sake and a little more brutal for his own. Is this him? It is now. Here. Now. Him. The words in the air slip into his head, phrases of light and flame flickering behind his eyes. As we forgive those who trespass against us. Self-abuse and fornication, beautiful beautiful words. He gropes a hand out blindly, and lead us not into temptation, and it's caught fast and hard. The slither of leather sends a spasm through and out him, a groan that's not his roughens the air. But deliver us from evil. 

A thud of knees hitting the floor, a hand grips his thigh and he's swallowed whole. A-fucking-men. Bale's hand anchors in soft hair but he still doesn't dare open his eyes. That mouth, oh fuck that mouth, hot and wet and dying like the inside of a flower, working around him, sloppy and lovely and noisy and jesusfuck he's using his teeth. Has to look. 

Bale opens his eyes and, like a foolish whore, falls in love all over again. Red mouth stretched and curved around his blood hard cock, lashes dark and tangling against white cheek, the devilish smear of eyeliner swooping out at the edge of those eyes, and the occasional glint and rasp of teeth. Bale pushes lower on the seat, pushes down, trying for throat. Flashglimmer of greygreen makes him shake harder. One sleek hand snaps around the base of his cock, squeezes like a vicious motherfuck, smooth leather on cockskin, and Bale makes a thoroughly undignified sound, throws an arm over his head for some bizarre purchase on the back of the seat. Tongue rasps across the slit of his cock, and then bloody well pushes in. Now he gasps, squirms to get away or get closer, push down into Reznor's throat or fucking up, up.

And the car comes to a distinct halt. Knuckles rap on glass. A disembodied male voice names his hotel.

Christian Bale feels the sudden violent need to torch a church.

~~~~~~~~

The hotel isn't particularly crowded but then he doesn't focus on much else but the effort involved in putting one foot before the other. And it's posh enough for people not to stare but still he keeps his eyes trained on middle distance. Perfectly cool detached Aquarian, right? Perfectly aloof Englishman, yep. 

Just as long as Reznor stays three paces away and doesn't say, do or breathe anything. Golds and creams and deep red flowers, the foyer murmurs a latent piano melody and they're not the only people in the elevator.

Breathe, Bale. Fucking fucking fucking boxers are torture. Don't breathe, maybe that'll help. He keeps his eyes on the ticking over numbers, sweating a little, fingers curling into his palm, and only after a few seconds remembers to jab the appropriate button. If there's the sense of amusement colouring the small hot space, he really doesn't notice. 

Oppressive metal silence. The woman standing before him has hair like spun silk, coloured all deep red against the fine black material of her dress. She smells expensive. And oh god he's not trembling, really really not. 

Then one index finger, smooth and hot, finds the inner pulse of his wrist and slides up.

Bale flinches like any virgin. Nearly knocks the woman, too. Amid the glare from her, the startled glance from the husband and his mumbled apologies, he manages a glance over at Reznor. 

Really cool Reznor looking thoughtfully up at the numbers. Bastard.

"Bastard," Bale hisses when they get out of the elevator a few seconds later. 

He gets a brief bright grin. "You looked tense." 

Throw him up against the wall, seriously, just plant a hand on his chest, slam him back and possibly kiss him until they both pass out. 

Bale settles for a filthy look. "Right. Because you've done this so many bloody times before."

Christ, he just turned into a woman.

Reznor's brow crinkles. "What the fuck are you talking about?" There's a vicious edge to that tone, skitters warning up Bale's spine. Don't back down. He swallows, fishes out the keycard but keeps his voice and eyes steady. "Am I the only one here who's freaking out? Because I don't ---"

Hard hand, bone of palm against the bone of his chin, fingertips digging into skin, and Bale thinks hazily he rather likes having his face grabbed before being kissed like he's a beautiful frustrating thing. Now him up against the wall, he struggles to get his hands between them, to touch, and is pushed, sodding well ground against, chest to crotch. Oh god, cock to cock, unmistakable knife curve of blood hard arousal pushed wrong angled against his. Reznor bites the corner of his mouth, swallows the sound, drags his teeth into the skin of his jaw. "I don't ---"

"Don't care," Bale snaps. And he really doesn't. Doesn't want to hear who the guy in the club was or wasn't, whether he's the first or the fifth. He plants his hand on the soft luscious material of that top and pushes Reznor away. 

That look of wounded astonishment is something priceless. And yet unamused, Bale finds his room door and swipes the keycard. He feels bruised and for the first time, knows he could end this right here. The door opens on a crash of scent. Oh sod. Well, one way or the other.

He glances over. Reznor, arms folded, belligerent and kinda whorish, stares back. Push and pull, lunge and recoil. Fuck and fly.

"My room stinks. D'you mind?"

~~~~~~~~

"What is it?"

"Mmmpf. What?"

Reznor opens his mouth to repeat the question and it's too pretty not to molest. Bale strokes his tongue in, pleased at the groan that slides down his throat. Strokes his hand down the top, fingertips sliding under the edge to warm abdomen drawing sharply in, he licks in deep and sucks some more, on tongue, on lips. A gloved hand is in his hair, languid, unable to do much more than hold on. Good, so good. 

They hadn't done much more than walk in. Reznor had glanced around, cursorily. Just a hotel room, the same golden and cream colours of lamp and wall framing the dark reds of the unmade bed. Bale tried halfheartedly to push a few things off the askew spread and gave up. A silent exchanged look that somehow ended with them across the clothes-strewn bed, Reznor laid under Bale, making out with all the heady indolence of a late late night.

"What?" Bale remembers to ask, lifting his dazed head. Greygreen eyes blink up at him, his mouth looks stung. Fucking gorgeous. "Uh? Oh. The smell." Bale's tie is being tugged at, those eyes lowering, gleam of teeth on lower lip, and he looks down to watch, unable to resist. "Y'having fun there?"

"Fuck you. Help me."

And just to see the reaction, Bale moves back, onto his knees astride Reznor, hands going to the knot of the tie. A narrow indrawn breath, eyes intensify and those hands come to rest on his thighs. Bale's cock twitches, bolt of need so sharp it's like nausea in the pit of his stomach. His eyes on Reznor, he undoes the tie, swift and unsteady, and oh jesus then there is a gloved hand placed on his crotch. 

"Fuck," he says intelligently, grabs to hold it there, throws the tie blindly and swerves down to meet Reznor's mouth already lifting. Sloppy desperate tongues and teeth and they're both scrabbling to get his trousers open. Bale feels the sudden stupid urge to say "Mine. Mine!"

Instead he chokes out "Perfume, magnolia, oh fuck." And Reznor makes this sound, rust and blades and ragged edges, that curls right through him, soles up the back of his calves, thighs, slithers up his spine and takes up residence in his hindbrain. So. Fucking. Hot. 

His cock's held, stroked steadily in a spitslick gloved hand. And his eyes close on the memory of blood light washing over with the thick dense white lust of scent. Bale thinks he may never be able to look at his mother again.

"Look at me."

And there was never a possibility of not. 

Reznor propped up on one elbow, tangled scrawl of hair slipping over his shoulder, unwavering searing greenish eyes getting brighter and clearer, cheekbones reddening. The fishnet crisscrossed muscles of his forearm are working, and jesus Bale's cock is blood hard and pearling in the gleaming black gloved hand. He's going to break, shatter apart, molecule from molecule, soul slipping, bled white, and it's terror stampeding through him.

"No." He tugs at that wrist and there's a sudden swift surge of Reznor forward, mouth of sharp teeth and god soft soft lips. His cock's released, a different kind of pain that shoots under his skin. Bale grabs blindly, finds a fistful of satin top, zipper and strip. A choked moan that is and isn't him and he pulls the front of the shorts down. 

Snarl of sound and oh christ, this is another man's cock in his hand. Like and not like his, living hot and hard and leaking just a little, glistening at the head. Bale goes down without another moment's thought, chokes on the taste and texture, and feels it when Reznor lies back on a throaty moan, spine melted. Gorging male heat, that particular scent of cock skin and dark hair, breathing in secrets, breathing in knowledge and power. Delirium slips bliss through his mind, lush and white. 

Slicks his tongue around and pushes in as he was pushed, relishes the jerk and moan and clutch of hand in his hair, the flex and tremble of thigh next to his cheek. Fists the base, he slides his mouth up til there's just the swollen head caught gently between his teeth and glances up to see he's being watched with something like murderous intensity. Good. Right. Staring back, he runs one hand down the length of suspender and meshed thigh, the muscle jumps and he swallows as far as he can go. 

Reznor arches forward on a hoarse cry. And Bale summons every trick ever used on him, not that many but obviously bloody effective. Teeth and tongue and fist and fingertip sliding along that secret piece of skin. When he presses in, Reznor’s spine snaps off the bed, cock hitting the back of Bale's throat and he gags something fierce, tears springing to his eyes. Reznor comes, spasming hard, bitter hot fast, sex-intoxicated scent of male and magnolia filling Bale, bloodheat pearling out through pore and breath.

He releases him, licks up soft and light. As Reznor sinks back to the bed, Bale traces the tip of his tongue over the bone of his hip, his whole body one steady pleased pulse. Licks under the edge of the top and slides the zipper down, uncovers Reznor's bare breathless chest. The vulnerable face is turned away, fine hair smeared against flushed cheek. 

Bale leans his mouth close to Reznor's ear. "I'm going to fuck you and you're going to let me."

~~~~~~~~~~

"Do you actually know how?"

Vodka. Whisky? Definitely not beer. He looks up from the bar fridge and gives Reznor an even look. Yes, his heart pounds in his chest and possibly he's a damned fool who's going to humiliate them both. But buggered --- ha! so funny --- if he's going to let that show. 

Bale grabs the tiny bottles of vodka and foots the door closed. "You're going to teach me." 

The sod has the audacity to tease. Standing beside the bed, chest and arms bare of mesh, he stretches, a nice long feline movement, muscles shifting sleek under skin, palms turning up, feral grin curling the thin mouth. But the eyes are careful greygreen. "What makes you think I know?"

Huh. That makes him pause. He’s seen evidence to the contrary, right, but the sobriety of those eyes is throwing him off. A little confused, Bale focuses on uncapping the vodka, face averted and tone casual. "What d'you mean?"

Evasion is good. There's the rustle of cloth and movement by the bed, Reznor's voice oddly mild. "My guitarist, we have this thing we like to do to get rid of people. Backstage, parties, wherever, y'know."

Bale has to look, knows his face is all disbelief. "You snog."

Reznor’s on the side of the bed, about to unlace his boots, long tangled hair slipping like ink over the pale sculpted curve of shoulder. Doesn't look back, tone quite flat. "We make out."

"Right, sorry, make out. No, leave them on."

Now he gets a tiny startled grin. "Pervert."

"Fuck you. Lose the shorts."

But they're both grinning. Bale slides back against the pillows, trousers still undone, barely staying on, cockstand a dull hard ache. His tie is a squiggle of dark satin blue on the deep red covers and, barefoot, he kicks some more clothes off the bed. Unbuttons his shirt with one hand as he watches Reznor undress and thinks about the philosophy of attraction, eyes across a crowded room sort of thing, oh god how romantic. Only this is not, is it? Apparently he wasn’t the only one experiencing a shift of orientation in that club. Huh. 

And this, the psychology of submission. The way lamplight gleams along the length of pale strong thigh, delineates the shape of naked shoulderblades. The way a confident guy snarls when denied then smiles when commanded. 

As Reznor rebuckles the suspenders, Bale rolls toward the open suitcase on the floor and carefully scoops up the broken bottle. Sets it beside the lamp on the bedstand and thoughtfully smears a hand across his chest. The scent clogs the air, virginal and depraved at the same time. He sniffs his palm slow and runs his tongue around his teeth, picking up the taste of bitterhotsalt. Possession and possessed. 

Now he's being watched.

A long slow moment of mutual regard, something coy and defiant altering the contours of Reznor nude save for the suspenders to fishnets and boots. Pretty, Bale thinks muzzily, his cock hurting again. All pale and slim and subtly muscled, spattered with slight dark hair across chest and at crotch. For one shameful fervent second, Bale hopes he's just as pretty, grey shirt hanging open and trousers framing a fierce hard-on. 

"Here." He holds out one of the mini-vodkas. Reznor gets a wry little twist to his mouth, rests one knee on the bed as he empties the bottle. Damned tease. The inner curve of his thigh away from the suspenders is shellpale and, god, taut and tender against the soft redder curve of cock. Bale places his fingertips on the contour of that thigh, leans and tastes a nipple, small and pinkish, with a few neat licks. The bottle clicks down on the bedstand. Something's murmured into his hair, he glances up and finds fingers --- bare fingers like cool air --- touched to the shape of his cheekbone. Pretty, say the greygreen eyes with just enough humour to make it all right.

And it's almost like holding a girl, slipping his arms around a slim waist and easing them back against the bedhead, finding a mouth and coaxing just the same, brush of soft hair against his face. For a moment, Bale forgets himself. But then the mouth against his changes and it's Reznor kissing him with a deft slick of his tongue, sliding his sure hands under his shirt, cutting a nail down the flinching skin of his abdomen, brush of cockflesh against his own hardness. 

Bale allows his shirt to be stripped off, a little breathless. One hand comes to rest against the centre of his chest and he watches Reznor's face as the fingers trace the grain of his skin, watches the flicker of thought and sensation in eyes paling green. Nails around the edges of his nipple, nearly sharp, nearly painful. A glint of teeth. He swallows, Reznor bends and he curves up on a strangled sound. Oh jesus. Suck, bite, scrape, the lightning white touch of pain, repeat and refrain. He pushes his aching cock against the smooth inward curve of Reznor's abdomen, blindly seeking skin, friction and oh christ, skimming fingers quick and closing firm around the head, pulling a little. Bale moans, tangles his fingers in hair, not sure if he's fighting or flying. 

His hands are tugged away, feels wrong to be free and then he does protest, a distressed moan that doesn’t sound anything like him. For his trouble, he's licked, tip of tongue feline delicate, breath of clear sharp vodka, licked from just above his lips up the line of his nose. It's possibly one of the most erotic things ever. And Reznor places his hands on his hips, upon the lines and buckles of suspender. Girl and not girl. Terribly confused and loving it, Bale kisses him on a grin, edging his fingers under straps to stroke the sleek skin there. Reznor murmurs appreciation into his mouth, thrusting a few times against his leaking cock. 

"Hold on," Bale mutters and angles them so Reznor's cheek is at his temple, so they can look down and watch as he shapes his palm to that inner curve of thigh. Drags his nails, ah yes Reznor's shudder of sensation. He briefly cups the warm mass of cock and scrotum and resists the urge to squeeze because that would just be evil. Thoroughly enjoying himself, Bale strokes along the striated pattern of fishnet over flesh, muscle firming under his touch, almost smooth and so so hot, little diamonds of bare skin strung together. 

The outer curve of his ear is seized precisely between teeth, the slur of a warning sound deep in Reznor's throat, and Bale slides his thumb along the stiffening contour of a cock not his own. 

"Prick," Reznor snarls softly and Bale agrees, petting because he is being evil now.

"Turn over." 

"No."

"Turn." He digs his nails into the muscle of Reznor's thigh. "Over." 

And that's not exactly a painful breath on which Reznor says happily "Oh fuck". He swerves down to the bed in this one long liquid movement. Possession, right. Bale looks at the slipslide of spine and limb, living white flesh bound and framed against covers the colour of old blood. Remembers this. Reznor on his elbows, cock carefully free of contact with the bed, beginning to turn his head to look over his shoulder. And Bale places one hand in the small of his back. Pushes. 

"Jesus!"

He laughs. Leans to taste the shape of shoulder. Glimmering eyes an inch from his, all silvered with lust and satisfaction as he's told he's a "Sodding tyrant." 

"Mmm." For that, he returns the favour and traces the tip of his tongue from lips to nose. Kissed on a low moan, hungry and insistent. He thinks at this rate, they'd be snogging --- sorry, making out --- all night. Not an entirely unpleasant thought, true. But he pulls away and shucks off his trousers, suddenly aware with a pale green look that he must seem all long legs and oddly tanned English skin, shaggy uncut hair framing his face. If only the fangirls could see him now. 

Reznor lifts himself off his cock, the muscles in his arms tensing under the white skin, as Bale straddles him, careful not to touch anywhere until. Until. He's so much taller than Reznor, sees that now with his arms braced on the covers, the length of his body just shy of contact. Cock painting his abdomen, steadily leaking clear drops on the backs of fishnet thighs. He sees Reznor feel it, the flinch and hiss and slow ripple of sensation. Beautiful and for now, completely and utterly His.

Bale takes his time, tastes from nape, slow scraping licks down the pearl curve of spine, sucks into the heat and grain of skin, drags his teeth against the contour of sliding muscle. Reznor's head falls forward, breath catching quickening, he thrusts in quick unconscious slightly sobbing movements against the covers. 

But when Bale darts his hand between the spread thighs, takes hold of the knife hard cock, Reznor's back snaps towards him, fast and violent and instant. Bale catches him on reflex, finds his mouth and oh god, his own cock slides against and between the curves of ass. He knows the same irrational instinct that has Reznor throwing his arm back as he arches into Bale's mouth, hand and cock. "Fucking beautiful," Bale tells him on a ragged breath and he laughs, wild. 

"Now."

"No."

He's really beginning to love that frustrated animal snarl. And he's never done this, doesn't even know what possesses him, is somewhat afraid. But never even considers he might be told no. He runs his thumb down the swoop of that lovely back, slow and careful as much for himself as for Reznor, and then before he can think, follows with his tongue. A moment of pure frozen tension when he gets there and it's every bit as strange and wrongbadhot as he thought.

Fingers and tongue and taking his cues from the half formed words gasped into the thick air and remembering what feels good from all the bored untouched nights alone in hotel rooms and at home. Discovering --- or is it remembering? ---- how to crook his finger just, just like that so Reznor stiffens and cries out. So he bites his own forearm and pushes back against Bale's hand. Bale swipes his tongue over the sleek curve of ass, the hurt of his cock such a tangible thing it's like a red red mist corroding through him. 

And this. Working the flesh of another body, learning the cues of a body going mindless with pleasure. He flashes into the awareness that this is a stranger, let alone a man, that he never knew him before tonight and now, now, now up to his second knuckle in ass, tongue sliding into the crease of sweat and secret. His mindsoul fractures a little, terrified turned on tantalised by the danger of everything about this, the taboo and not of it all. And still the stab of his tongue in, in is cruel satisfaction, cruel luscious vile as Reznor twists and snarls and bloody well kicks, motherfucking boots and all. 

Bale makes a vicious sound through his teeth, traps Reznor's legs with one arm and, for good measure, nips at the inner curve of ass, not kindly. A sort of hatred sears through him, at this commitment to a night of debauchery that he seems to have made, that he's actually doing this instead of what he's done every other night for a week, lying on this empty bed, bored with a book.

He rears back up and sees all too well that it takes barely a second for Reznor to flip over and lurch up on his elbows. The sight of his face, sweaty, hair smudged to temples and cheeks, reddened, breathless, green silver eyes glittering is guilt, a little bit of self-loathing but very quickly superceded by an intense desire to hurt.

"Now."

"No," says Reznor, "my fucking turn."

And it's assault, pure and simple.

~~~~~~~~

He's bitten. All over. And god, it's like bliss and agony and brilliance, skin prickling and hot and far far too tight. Held down with one hand cutting across his throat, pressing down on breath. Bale gasps, his vision darkening, body arching under the ground glass insistence of teeth and tongue, lovely wet thick tongue striping, stripping skin to nerve. 

The hand eases at one point and without thinking, he gropes, presses it back, eyes fluttering open to see a narrowed pale moment of calculation before Reznor swerves away with the same swift lethal grace. Bale pushes his bloodaching cock against the fishnet thigh, moans a little like a girl with the skitter of friction and flails blindly on the other bedstand. A crumple of leather and Reznor glances back, down just in time to see a black gleam coil around cock. Bale's quite sure in some dimly conscious part of his mind that he has an expression of absolutely embarrassing happiness on his face.

"Fucking beautiful pervert ..." 

He's kissed with his head held between both hands, openmouthed and wildly adoring. And there's a trail of material like liquid against his throat, feels like a hint of heaven. Reznor pulls back, slips a hand under his nape, lifts and Bale has to squeeze the base of his cock hard and brutal. Because his satin blue tie --- which, hello, his sister bought him, bloody fucking hell --- is wound around his throat. 

And pulled really. Really. Tight.

He arcs up on a soundless cry, into green eyes silvering through with light. Kinda like absinthe, Bale thinks deliriously, and not, and not. But god, he's dying, like this man's dripping brilliant poison into him, with every lick and suck and bite, soaking the grain of his skin, seeping into every pore. Jesus, this must be what possession feels like, is this what it feels like to be --- and he knows he wants it. Wants it now. Grips at Reznor mutely, unable to formulate any sound, eyes shut on a soaring green glittered blackness, drags one of those long hands that started this all to his leather wrapped cock. And beyond. 

"What?" Reznor runs the edge of a fingertip up the inside of Bale's thigh and leans in close. Licks along the blade of his cheekbone and waits until Bale looks mutely at him. Green eyes mocking and gleeful. And the bastard cinches the tie even tighter. "Tell me what."

Fuck you, fuck you so very much! Bale chokes on his fury, chokes on a lot more than that as he pulls with both hands at Reznor's grip. Runt isn't supposed to be this sodding strong. "Say it," he's coaxed and the tie loosens a little. Just enough. 

"Fuck you," Bale says hoarsely and actually feels his heart trip at the wide endearing smile he receives. He can't say the word, all right fine, he actually did it but to actually say it, to ask. "Freak," he manages, getting his fingers between the tie and his abused throat. "Control freak." 

Reznor kisses him. Slow and deep and soft and sweet, just lips and the gentlest wet touch of tongue. Oh, bollocks.

"All right, do it," Bale mutters, tasting a curling corner of mouth. 

"Do what?"

"Bastard. Rim me. Jesus, rim me." And the word, the phrase feels every bit as degrading and dirty on his mouth as he thought it would. Oh look, a whole new depth of contradiction to his personality. Such joy. He scowls up at Reznor who's enjoying this way too much. "Fucking hate you."

"Yeah." Reznor gives him a thoughtful look. "Hate you too," he says before he disappears down. 

And that's a whole new level of taboo. Bale stares at the shadowed ceiling for a second, panic stampeding through his chest. Disbelief and a whole pint of panic. Oh, good show, Bale. Yeah, really smart.

"Stop it."

A glance down the length of his own body. Greygreen eyes watching, mouth a breath from his hip. "Stop thinking."

And of course he has to snark back. "Right, because you know what I'm bloody well thinking."

A grin curls around the mouth, he props his elbow on Bale's thigh and says quite affably "You're a moody little bitch, aren't you?"

This seems grossly grossly unfair. So when scowling doesn't work, Bale settles for the mature response of kicking Reznor lightly in the belly. "Sod you."

"Trying. Hold still."

Hold still. A command of perfect simplicity. The psychology of submission. Bale hooks his fingers under the loosened tie, closes his eyes and locks down on the moody bitch part of his mind, trying not to wonder how everybody else in the world does it. Slim fingers slide around his heel, cradle his ankle and his foot is slid over the bone curve of Reznor's shoulder, feels like some gorgeous inexplicable ballet. And then oh jesus, tongue, tongue. 

He flinches, shocked despite himself. Has to resist the urge to scramble back, resist the urge to squirm and then resist the urge to come and come and come. 

Because god, that's what a tongue feels like, so terribly shamefully there. A blackness rises behind his eyes, he falls soars in the tremoring dark of bodysoul invaded, slowly, strangely, inexorably. Twists his fingers in the tie and now he is squirming against Reznor's face, that curling pushing tongue, wet and thick, lapping in deeper, fingers spreading him wider, christ like no other sensation ever. So this is rimming. And he really didn’t just hear himself cry out like a bloody girl. Because up and in, a finger had just found that spot, that very incredible spot. Reznor's finger crooks, strokes, sends white flickerstuttershots of electricity that arc up under skin the entire length of his body. One finger, two, teeth fastening in the inside of his thigh, nipping, licking, working him in. 

And then suddenly there's the swoop of Reznor's body over his, Bale nearly swallows his own tongue, and jesus, overwhelming rush of scent, magnolia mother heresy drenching through him. Suddenly it's wet leather clenched around his cock, a friction too exquisite to bear with anything but hoarse unformed sounds, and Reznor's eyes like pale green fire, watching him close as he arches and cries out. 

He will break him apart. One hand clasping the perfumed leather to the raw throb of his cock, the other spreading him apart, three fingers pushing up in, shocking soulskin over and over again. And murmurs from that defiant mouth above his that seem to slip through his pores, resonate, resonate, his skin stretching thinning until there cannot be any more, he has to, has to come. 

Bale lunges and Reznor takes him in a tangle of limbs and breaths, cocks thudding abdomens, leather and satin falling away, red white scrape of bootheel against shin, mouths and hair, and forgetting to be gentle, forgetting everything but the roar to invade, possess and just have. 

When it comes to it, no words need be said. There's lube somewhere, Bale tears away, scrabbles at the drawers in the bedstand, barely registers the violent rock of a broken bottle in the lamplight. Reznor’s not making things any easier, his hands slip fast, palm swift and desperate along Bale’s skin, mouth following, sucking and dragging like he can’t and won’t be free. Damned man squirms like a bloody girl against him and makes him actually drop the stupid lube. “Stop it!”

Okay, maybe there are words.

"Well, come fucking on," Reznor snaps back. Bale scoops up the tube from the floor, catches and sets the perfume bottle upright, and beams, ridiculously proud of himself. Goddamned fucking hero. There’s that sound again, of razors and rust, and his face caught between two hands, kissed like he will be devoured. And this he can do. 

My fucking turn. Bale uses the advantage of height without a thought, feels it in his shoulders when he pushes and pins Reznor down with the length of his body, maddened by so much skin slipsliding skin because he’s not the only one struggling to get closer. The lube falls out of his hand, doesn’t matter for now, because there’s throat and that spot under Reznor’s ear, he swipes his tongue, sucks hard and harder still with the image of a bruise. Messy and sweaty and so fucking hot, the furnace of breath and skin and wet hard cock sliding against cock. 

Reznor twists with something like a sob, scrabbling for something in the covers and yes, lube. Bale’s shoved unceremoniously off, doesn’t mind so much because he gets to mouth skin, licking thoughtlessly as he watches those unsteady long hands slathering cock and, right definitely not cunt. It’s a little terrifying and a lot amazing how happy this makes him. Bale sweeps his hand down over nipple and navel to grab the tube away and push himself upright. Reznor watches, chest rising and falling quick, mindlessly rubbing his own cock. Jesus, hot and cool and ah fuck, kinda fabulous pain sensation. 

As Bale tosses the lube back towards the bedstand, he catches something a bit like anxiety in the greygreen eyes. No words could do anything at this point and for god’s sake, no fervent promises of puppies and picket fences. Reznor moves as if to flip his leg over, hard leather of boot against Bale’s calf. And this he can say. Bale catches his hand against Reznor’s thigh, hot and meshed. “No. Stay.”

Stay. A word to be put very firmly out of head, jesus Bale you’re fucking thinking again. He leans forward, unnerved at the chase of fear and determination in Reznor’s unguarded face. Closes his eyes and kisses with deliberation. Slow and deep and reassuring without being soppy, reassuring for the both of them. He feels the same deliberate relaxation go through Reznor’s body as he’s kissed back, tongue licking into his mouth. It has to happen like this, when neither can see, neither can slip away. Bale slides his mouth down, sucks a little on the curve of chin as he runs his hands along Reznor’s thighs. Metal buckles under his palms, he traces the beginning of the fishnets, eyes slitting open to see Reznor’s face paling slightly. For a moment, he’s rather glad he’s on this side and not the other. Or maybe that’s stupid. 

Hold still.

Something breaks in his brain, the sudden resurgence of resentment and this time he uses it. Shoves Reznor’s thighs further apart and kisses him hard before there can be a reaction. Reznor gets it, even welcomes it, pushes up, against him, mouth breaking out in knives again. Bale slides the head of his cock slick and slow, not in, not yet, just against that crease that feels a little and nothing like cunt, lets them both feel the extent of this. And this, this, the urge to take and rape and have nothing to do with any tenderness at all. Doesn’t quite take hold. 

Reznor shudders a little, grabs his hand and they spread him apart, fishnet leg hooking and sliding over Bale’s thigh, moans in the dimness of face against face, lashes tangling against cheek, breath into breath. Bale fingers in deft and swift, he angles up against that spot of nerves and takes Reznor’s arch up into him. A bitten cry of protest when he eases his fingers out and a sigh into his hair as he puts the head of his cock there, just lines up and breathes for a second. 

When it comes to it.

Bale has to ease his upper body back and it’s hard, much too hard to separate, skin peeling hot and wet off skin. But he has to see. Reznor looks at him, there’s nothing but the sound of their breath in the hot room, the air heavy and scented. Bale licks his lips, looks back, tries so very hard not to think. His blood seems to pound all the way down to the throb of his cock. And he really doesn’t know if he wants to do this, suddenly absurdly young and afraid. 

Clearly Reznor sees it, thought flickering through those eyes dark like the murk of moss on stone. No words, for god’s sake, no words but at the same time, Bale wishes he knew what the fuck would make this all right and smooth this moment over. 

In the end, it’s just as absurdly simple.

“Here,” Reznor says quietly and slips his hand between them. Bale hisses at the touch but god, it’s relief, slightly shaming relief when Reznor tenses his thighs and guides just the head in. 

“Christ.”

Just that, that makes Bale squeeze his eyes shut, his whole body rigid. Jesus, the feel of pushing in, of being in, like he’s never fucked before, like his cock has never entered another body before. He breathes, it hurts to breathe, think of England, think of England, now would be a really good time to think. And he opens his eyes to see Reznor has his shut, teeth in lip, sweat glistening a little in the hollow of his throat. 

Come fucking on, Bale. And once the thought’s in, nothing will do but. Curiosity, determination, he tests, pushes just a tad, and the shock that goes through Reznor is a bolt of arousal up his own spine. Fuck the motive, he pushes deeper and watches the silent snarl splitting Reznor’s mouth as he slides in, inch by inch, unrelenting, hotter and hotter, slicked muscles so tight around his cock, so so fucking tight. A breath reeling through his teeth, he eases Reznor’s thighs around his hips, hooks his fingers under knees and with some involuntary instinctive twist at the base of his spine, there’s a moment of intense heat bursting all over his body and he finds himself fully and thickly in, all the way. 

Green. Definitely green. Shot through with dark hazel. Silver in a blaze of light. Pupils blown. Lashes and eyeliner. And jesus, he’s in him to the root, feels every breath shuddering through him, every second wiping out every other time he’s ever been with, all right melodrama now, Bale. Throat dry, he manages out, “Y’all right?”

Lashes shaking down, an impossible breathless tension flickering like electricity along every inch of sweat slick skin. And still Bale needs to know. “Mmm.” A swallow of the white throat, Reznor opens his eyes and looks clearly up at him. “Wanna be a cliché, do you?”

What? What! And it totally has the intended effect, outrage overtakes confusion. “Fucker,” Bale snarls, knowing he’s been manipulated, and kisses him hard. An unintended surge forward that has them both shocked with sensation, a movement that has to be repeated. Fucking. Bale hunches his shoulders, swipes his tongue violently along the side of Reznor’s face, his fist clenched in the snarled hair by temple, and he fucks. Hard and unrelenting, without mercy. Resentment and rage and maddened desire, delirium of destruction. He will break him apart. 

And Reznor takes it. He fixes one hand at Bale’s nape and digs his fingers in, pushing up, not yielding in the slightest, not at all like a girl, not ever. He wraps one meshed leg around Bale’s calf, eyes glittering absinthe, arches his back and oh god works himself on Bale’s cock. Jesusfuckingchrist. Sweat gleaming along the curve of his throat, the smell of hot male skin, rub of chest hair and nipples and ohoh metal buckle and fishnet abrasive and amazing. 

Bale rears back onto his knees, Reznor cries out at the threat of separation, flashfire of pale green, but follows and voices an entire different sound as Bale closes an ungentle hand around his neglected cock. Obscenity of beauty in the searing air, his hands twisting in the blood red covers, Reznor pushes himself up and reaches, no, he bloody well swipes and snatches the perfume bottle off the bedstand. Flashshatter of glass in the light, slice of red, and Bale shudders with the sudden drench of scent splashed over the covers, himself and Reznor’s chest. “Sick sick fuck,” he chokes out and is laughed at, eyes brightest green. 

Bale, thrumming with sadistic shame and exhilaration, shoves Reznor flat and lifts the slender hips clear off the bed, doesn’t matter that he’s never done this with a man before, with this man, the body remembers, the body invents. He fucks in deeper, faster, eyes blurring on the sight of white male flesh contorted and arched for him, his cock the all and point of being, blood and heat and unthought and light, skin tightening and tightening til every touch, sense, breath hits fast and hard and he takes it all, fucks it all. 

Reznor pulls up his knees, abrupt whipcord lethal strength that Bale follows and suddenly there are eyes like palest wildest alcohol, long hard hands on his face and a voice that says “Now.”

Bale comes like any sub. Spine snapping, vision shorting out, feels like his flesh melts off him, dissolves pore breath soul into the act of coming and coming and coming into Reznor.

It happens forever. It shatters him. For what seems like for ever.

And when he remembers to breathe, he’s hunched, forehead to temple with Reznor. Who has a fist whiteknuckled around the base of his own cock, and touches his hand to Bale’s cheekbone. 

“I get to fuck you now.”

~~~~~~~~~

Annihilated. Boneless. So gone. 

Fragments of words, half formed, half sensed, slip through the daze of his mind. He knows in a tiny sense that something’s required of him, sensing the tension of an unfulfilled man breathless and simmering against him. And yet, god, he really can’t move, every inch of him liquefied magnolia. A second stretches, curls out long and luscious. Eyes closed, fingers splayed against the fine tight weave of the covers, he feels that texture all the way from nape down spine and the backs of his thighs to the curve of his heel. Barely moving air along the surface of chest and arm and abdomen, just the rest of faintly warm still roomspace. 

He’s not touched and this makes Bale open his eyes. Seek out. 

And this is the sign. Reznor moves fast, the same lethal grace that Bale now recognises as all lust. And he can’t help it, he flinches. It’s the involuntary reaction of a bodysoul just spent and come down, the sense horror of another onslaught, beauty or pain, doesn’t mean anything but a physical exhaustion. But Reznor sees it and stops just as abruptly, eyes darkening.

“No,” Bale manages, struggling up, and yeah it’s entirely the wrong thing to say. Stupid fuck. Reznor’s backing off already, slinging a leg off the bed, standing up with a slight wince. Oh really nice work, Bale, ever so fucking eloquent. 

Sod the afterglow, he lunges and oh god a new kind of agony, all that skin silking against his not yet recovered flesh. Sensitive all over and just as suddenly addicted to this new pain. Fuck the words, sounds will do just fine and sounds he’s making plenty, mouth against breastbone, fingerprints pulling on the contours of back and sleek hip. Reznor’s hand curls in his hair, nowhere near as hurtful as it should be, and he resists just to have that edge, that particular tug of force, he resists the drag all the way up the pale taut body until his mouth’s taken and then it is brutal and beautiful, teeth and throat sounds, hands curved to his cheekbones, the dizzying defiant rush of being wanted so damned hard.

“That wasn’t funny,” Reznor says sternly after a moment, letting go. 

Bale grins, sprawling back just because he can. “Whinger.” 

And the green eyes are already lightening, lips parting a little as Reznor looks at him leaning back on his elbows, legs splayed wide, naked and smeared with sweat and his own come. Damned hair’s plastered to his temples, tickling the tops of his shoulders but he knows he looks hot. 

“Fuck you,” Reznor says on totally unmeaning reflex, looking a little stunned. 

“Mmm.” Bale runs a slow hand across his chest, unabashed. 

And that’s a definite growl, Reznor’s brows snapping together. “You …” 

The long hands move swift and sure, unbuckling suspenders, shucking the straps. Boots kicked off, fishnet momentarily struggled with then stripped away. And how is it possible that this full nudity is way sexier? So totally bare. Reznor does this feline sort of crawl up the bed, and Bale stares, commits every breath and fraction of the moment to memory.

Green eyes unwavering, framed by tangled hair over white white skin, shifting with young sleek muscle, mouth red sulky with ridiculously lush lower lip. That had better not be a twitch from his agonised cock because he can’t take another, oh christ. Reznor goes down, bastard bastard bastard, and licks ever so delicately, the tip of his tongue unbearably soft and a bit rough, lapping, sliding, tracing the contour of stirring cock, and relishing, apparently bloody relishing the mingled tastes of sweat, semen and lube. Bale whimpers without shame. So so fucking not fair that he’s not turned off by this, and the mindfuck of it.

Maybe he says it, because Reznor laughs as he raises his head, gleeful eyes and curving lips. Bale reaches and yanks. It’s like the moment in the car, squirming gorgeous intimacy, hands and hair against his face and hard hungry mouth, losing himself in the heat of flesh and lust, taste of himself on that tongue. Only now there’s not the slightest bit of fabric between them, it’s all skin and skin and nudge of nipple and the subtle friction of chest and pubic hair. 

He slides his hands up the sleek strong curve of back. Reznor slings a leg ---- so beautifully bare ---- over his thigh and they both hiss involuntarily at the dark hot thrust of hard cock against soft sensitised curled flesh. Bale is kissed with something like an apologetic tenderness and it reminds him he’s not the only one who’s probably quite sore. Snuffles a kiss into the hollow beneath jaw, tongue licking out briefly, because it’s all right to be sweet now and he wants to, damn it.

Reznor sighs, a sound that should seem ridiculous but really isn’t at all. He looks down, meets Bale’s eyes with that intensity controlled for the moment. His thumb finds the corner of mouth, tastes like sweat and slightly gritty. And Bale spreads his legs very deliberately open. Wants this, if only to give the kind of release he had. Oh very noble and selfless, yeah, but there it is.

He keeps forgetting Reznor hasn’t done this before so it startles him to see the quick swallow of throat and a flicker of apprehension in the changing eyes. Bale grins only a bit, strokes his fingertips up the smooth concave abdomen. He could tell him it’ll be all right but then he hasn’t forgiven that licking business. And it might not be.

So he slides his palm down and takes careful hold of Reznor’s cock. So close, so hot, the tip leaking clear, a new strained rasp to the breathing between them, both watching. Bale circles the edge of his thumb slow and careful, just above and around the head, not touching. And Reznor cries out, shoves his cock hard into Bale’s hand, snarls an entirely different way at the sensation. 

The moment shatters, Reznor twists a hand in Bale’s hair, yanks his head back and kisses hard, hard enough to bruise and blood. He’s pushed back onto his elbows, the furious body slithering against his and ah jesus, loves this rage, that he can cause this. And take this.

A word’s breathed against his mouth, can’t quite make it out and then forgets because Reznor’s hand’s between his thighs, fingers beyond scrotum and without warning into him. Bale flinches and clutches just as hard, head falling back on a moan. Jesus, that spot of knotted nerves, the unerring deft fingers, he doesn’t even need to look to know he’s being watched with absinthe coloured eyes. He slides further against the covers, angles his hips up like any young wanton thing and moans with the streaking of heat just under his skin, cock stiffening and hurting. Reznor twists his fingers, licks his face at the same time and Bale twists on an enraged cry and sinks his teeth into a white upper arm, bites really fucking hard because he does not want to come again, not now, just not. 

There’s a laugh, ragged and crazed, that catches on a pained breath. Bale reaches wildly over his head for where he remembers the lube falling somewhere in the covers, and Reznor, the maddened fucker, is licking up the centre of his chest, tongue agile flat and wet, fingers slipping out to wrap around Bale’s cock. 

“Ah fuck!” 

He bloody well flings the lube at Reznor’s chest and follows to fasten his mouth on nipple, not caring that he traps them into confusion. It’s messy and violent and someone probably gets an elbow in an eye but eventually they’re lubed up and, all right, laughing with a touch of hysteria. 

Green eyes giddy with delight, lashed and dark smeared, so close to his, breath of heat and him and the slightest edge of alcohol. Keeping that connection, Bale runs his hand down and takes hold once more, guides as he was guided and dear god the feel is something entirely new all over again. If he catches his breath, Reznor seems to bite the inside of his cheek, pale eyes skittering down to where the slick full head is easing into Bale’s tense body. He watches Reznor breathe in narrowly, the pale arms tautening as he takes all the weight and eases slowly excruciatingly carefully in.

In.

Bale closes his eyes, face tipping back. Who knew flesh could stretch like this? Taking. And he knows no girl ever feels like this. God, the sense of cock, thick and slippery but so inescapably there, pushing in deeper, and his muscles shaping clenching around this, this. He opens his eyes to remind himself that it’s not just this, not just any, this is Reznor. Whoever the fuck he is, whatever he does, Reznor with his hair long and dark around his face, eyes glimmering green under shaking lashes, mouth red and vulnerable, smell of sweat and flesh and faint perfume between them. His. Bale tenses his thighs and tilts his hips up, just the slightest, and they both moan as Reznor slides all the way in. And oh god, this is possession. This is it. The breathless impossibly inhabited owned body conviction. 

Bale stares up into Reznor’s face with those eyes squeezed shut, the tiniest sob caught in throat. His own body feels utterly new to him, like sparks flickering along every inch of skin and it’s a bit of a shock to realise his hand’s on the small of Reznor’s back. He breathes in, watches, and slides his palm over the curve of ass, presses just enough and it’s enough to trigger that same urge he had known. 

Flash of green, a muffled sound between teeth and Reznor surges forward. Bale arches on a cry and this is fucking, this he knows but not like this, blazing exhilaration in invasion, like he’s strobed from the inside, palest green fire streaking through him, and the shock feel assault of sweat and skin and that exquisite knot of nerves worked upon in an entirely different way, scored and brutalised and beautifully so because he’s bloody well going to come harder than ever ever before, to hell with the melodrama. Spasms and shudders and colours shattering behind his eyes, hot splashes of come all over his abdomen and chest and when he settles, totally out of breath, his lower lip is bleeding and his fingers are dug into Reznor’s forearms.

Reznor who has fucked and watched and hasn’t come, is holding himself so still he’s shaking slightly. Bale shrinks a little, feeling stripped from the inside out, utterly exposed under the eyes now clear and unwavering like pure alcohol. Almost feels the need to apologise. Reznor lets out a narrow shuddering breath, lowers his face and runs the tip of his tongue over the centre of Bale’s mouth. Licks up blood. And this time he hears it, a low animal murmur. “Mine.”

Fucking oath.

Fucking yes. 

Bale swipes his hands up the sweat slicked spine, up under the long spill of hair. And he shapes his palms to this face that should still be strange, that has no business being this damned familiar after not even twelve hours. 

“Come the fuck on, Reznor.”

Who hadn’t expected to laugh but does. Bright and wild and beautiful. Hair swinging over his face, hips snapping forward in this fabulous ceaseless rhythm that Bale lies back happily to appreciate, slowly beginning to admit that he’s kind of enjoying this using of his body. He flattens one hand at the base of Reznor’s throat, feels the thunder of blood there, skin so wet and hot all over all over that he could slip away but Bale wraps his other hand around a flexing upper arm and holds on all the tighter. It’s a delirium of energy, thighs hard and bruising between his own spread wide, the rub and rustle of pubic hair against his, tight abdomen brushing his, the incredible scent of fresh male sweat, that thick dizzying push of cockthrust. 

Reznor’s flesh gleams, nipples hard and dark, as red as his mouth bloodied from Bale’s own lip. Mesme-fucking-rising. So so hot against him and getting all the hotter, like Reznor’s blood is rushing closer and closer under skin getting thinner and thinner. Bale loses his breath, reaches away to grip the covers.

There’s a curve of glass bottle beneath his palm. He glances up to see Reznor arch his neck, eyes shut as he curves his torso away, light gleaming the brilliant contour of throat. And Bale smears his hand across the exposed blade of chest, scent and semen and the slightest tinge of blood. Sense explosion. Reznor looks down, shudders and comes hard, his skin glistening pearl rich, ink hair slipping all over Bale’s face, breaking in the loveliest way. Bale catches him as he falls in a moment of pure vulnerable beauty. 

Strung on the smell of spent male and decadent flower, mindshocked, he holds and puts his face against black hair, lips against the sculpted curve of temple. There’s the sense of something huge that just happened, not just the orgasm of one man, and he’s not sure he wants to know right now. Sweaty limp male flesh slumped all the way down his body, heart thumping so hard he can feel it clear through his chest. Reznor lies against him, face against his shoulder, and he’s just as soulshattered.

There’s nothing funny left to say.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’ll be morning soon. Dull gold drapes at the window, there’s a certain change to their depth and a new damp edges the chill of night. But as yet they’re on this side of the dawn and that, Bale admits to himself, is a small good thing. 

Pillow at his back, covers kicked finally to the floor, he leans against the headboard and drags reflectively on the cigarette. Reznor is sprawled between his legs, all nude lines and contours at ease against him. Bale has one arm hooked lazily around the relaxed white body, a long hand is idle on his forearm, and the dark head rests against his chest. Reznor’s thinking and not sharing and that’s all right. He smokes, absently remembering he hasn’t done this for a while, forgotten how it feels, this pure slow savouring of every exhaled second and every inhaled moment like the quiet ageless breath of a small perfect world.

Wordless, he turns the cigarette between his index and third finger and regards the burning tip for a moment. Acrid wonderful poison. And yes, there is a twist to his mouth when he slides his hand, palm inward, before Reznor’s face. Obscenely beautiful fingers, bare and pale, snick the cigarette away and he inclines his head to watch. Ah, and it is pretty, so pretty to see the mouth that closes where his mouth had been, the parted fingers, the flicker down of lashes with that breath in. Nicotine addiction, breath of my breath. Bale noses the curve of an ear just because he wants contact, flexes his hand without demand on the gentle rise and fall of chest, his fingers skating inadvertently over nipple. And Reznor turns his face to him, smiles with slow sleepy acknowledgment. 

Puppies and picket fences don’t seem so far away now. But then that’s the danger of these moments, isn’t it? Reznor smokes in silence, the rhythm of his breath measured back against Bale’s heart. Comforting nicotine settles into the room scent of sex and sweat and magnolia. And reminded, Bale slips his hand around Reznor’s, turns it palm upwards. 

Shaggy hair against inkslide, they look mutely at the shallow curve of dried blood in the centre and Bale rubs the edge of his thumb gently across, remembering the taste of metal, the slight twinge on his own lip, and the flash of red in the air. It’s a tiny cut, already closing, and he tries very hard not to think about scars and memories. Reznor curls his fingers in, rests for a second in Bale’s palm, and they let go at the same averted moment.

The light is changing now at the edges of drapes. Bale tips his head back against the board and closes his eyes because, right, look anywhere but there. And now Reznor does speak, the same precise controlled tone from so many hours ago.

“So. Why not my place?”

Bale opens his eyes, stares at the cream shadowed ceiling. What? There’s no possible way this conversation could go anywhere he likes and, also, ruining the bloody moment. He settles for what he knows is an incredibly frustrating answer. “Hmm.” Cool detached Aquarian not engaging, avoiding the subject, watch him work.

Reznor turns towards him, slipslide of bare flesh. He doesn’t need to look to know the greygreen eyes are direct and possibly a little annoyed on his face. “You wanted this here. Why?”

Why? Why. And it is genuinely difficult to think back, try to grope through the haze of lust and requited lust to what exactly he had thought in the car. Then he does look, curious despite himself. “Why do you need to know?”

Reznor doesn’t waver, eyes perfectly steady, no trace of any emotion in voice or expression. “I need to know. I can’t figure it out.”

Figure you out. God, how many times has he heard that? All from girls and now this. Guy. 

And the surge of regret, horror, remorse, the what-the-fuck-have-I-gotten-myself-into panic he braces for. Doesn’t come. 

So. Out indeed. Big ole gay Bale. Or at least bisexual. Because breasts are still a nice thought.

Quietly happy, he leans back and says with a grin, “Because.”

Because maddening is still part of him too.

Reznor arches a brow. His lip actually curls a little, it looks terribly delicious. And all right, maybe maddening is not the best thing now. 

“Because,” Bale says, “didn’t want to share.”

Silence. And he had tried so damned hard to make that sound casual but it really wasn’t. And isn’t. He swallows, maintains the eye contact. For god’s sake, please let there not be puppies.

And Reznor draws up his knee, braces his arm, cigarette dangling from his hand. His body is touched by a glimmer of silver dawn from the edges of gold. His voice is careful as he looks at the cigarette. “You know how I said I make out with my guitarist to drive people away?”

“Mm.”

Reznor extends his arm out to Bale who takes the cigarette with the neatest touch of fingers against fingers. Greygreen eyes unwavering intelligent and clear.

“Well, there’s no one else here.”

**Author's Note:**

> References that aren’t necessarily calculated to the time period, just phrases that popped into my head attributed here for record’s sake:
> 
> Mergers and acquisitions, American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis, 1991.  
> Come the fuck on / Come fucking on, Bridget Jones’ Diary, Helen Fielding, 1996.  
> Now … up against the wall, Trent Reznor (Nine Inch Nails), Head Like A Hole, PrettyHateMachine, 1990.  
> bled white, Elliott Smith, song of the same name, xo, 1998.  
> bootheel, Jeff Buckley, You & I, Sketches For My Sweetheart The Drunk, 1998.  
> Hold still, The Crow, 1994.  
> The psychology of, article: The Art of Darkness by Chris Heath, Details, April 1995.  
> There’s nothing funny left to say, Robbie Williams, The Road To Mandalay, Sing When You’re Winning, 2000.  
> Image of the last scene as inspired by a picture taken by Bruno Gmunder, 1996.


End file.
